


vengeance and death

by cthulu_sun



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulu_sun/pseuds/cthulu_sun
Summary: legend says you have wax-dipped wings and golden fingernails and knives made of the blood you have spilled. legend says you are not merciful.-in which renee is a tired guardian angel, finds the foxes, and falls in love.





	vengeance and death

you are made in the shadows.

mother presses a knife into your hands, a sliver of red that gleams when the moon hits it. somehow it feels like soap between your fingers, slick and slipping; you grasp it tightly, so that it does not escape. 

_go_ _,_ mother says.  _it is not safe, here._

the sun rises, steady and bright and burning, hot on your back as you run. mother does not come with you. 

(you hear her screaming in your nightmares).

//

the world meanders past you, gentle and strolling. sometimes it stops for tea, a little pocket of borrowed time that leaves just as quickly as it arrives. 

they call you  _vengeance,_ when you protect the ones who find you. legend says you have wax-dipped wings and golden fingernails and knives made of the blood you have spilled. legend says you are not merciful. 

(in summer you make chamomile tea for a boy who is more scars than skin. the number three is drawn in black on his cheek. you pick flesh from your teeth and he does not visit again). 

//

later, some start to call you death: swift for the innocent and slow for the guilty, dripping blood and dreams and bottled hope. 

legend says you carry a knife soaked in the lives of your victims. legend says you favour the weak and spit on the bones of the strong. 

(it is winter and you have silver on your tongue. you pour a cup of lemon sweetened with honey and another of ginger tea for two girls who sit rigid like dolls and do not flinch when the windows slam shut. you are  _death_ and you wash red from your skin while the world is sleeping).

//

there is a boy, surrounded by graves and bathed in light. his knife is black and cracked in two places. he is crying. 

(you wonder if he was made in violence, too. wonder if he has carved it into his skin in an effort to be less human, like you).

he tells you his name is andrew. it suits him. he asks for yours and you do not have one to give but you say  _renee_ because you're hoping it'll come true, one day. 

the two of you sit on stone and drink. you have sage tea. he refuses everything but hot chocolate. 

(he asks if you remember the mother.

you say  _no_ but he must hear the lie in the tremble of your voice, the clench of your teeth.

he says nothing).

//

you meet the father in autumn. 

he is thin, translucent, and he washes the blood from your soul until you are clean and whole and new. 

_come, my child_ rumbles through the earth. he opens his arms and you fall into them, world-weary.  _you are safe, now._

(he holds you like you are something precious, something important. you are aching and sobbing and there is a knot in your chest but he is kind and patient when you give him your knife. 

_no,_ he says.  _keep it._

you make rose tea and pour it into the sky. the father drinks. 

"what is my name?" you ask, when he is done. 

he smiles, then. like a sunrise.  _you already know, renee_ ).

//

"there are others," andrew says, the next time you meet. 

sweat drips down your face and your knife is cold between your fingers. "like us?"

"no. they don't like me."

the world is gold, then red, then grey when he taps your shoulder. loss. "do you want them to like you?"

"i do not care."

he does, but it's not you he's lying to, so you let it slide for now. instead you press your knife into his stomach. success. "can i meet them?"

andrew is silent. you wait. "soon," he says. "be ready."

//

they call themselves foxes. 

the first you meet is aaron, because he borrows andrew's human face more often than not, though their true forms are very different. he asks if you and andrew are together. 

(you hands are  _redredred_ but you remember the father's gentleness and the colour fades. 

"no," you say. he looks skeptical. he should know by now that you and andrew do not lie).

nicky is lonely. you think maybe he misses someone. his knife is green, but andrew was right; he is not like you. 

you think kevin  _is_ like you, at first. he is harsh and unforgiving, but he is not a fighter. none of them are fighters, really; they have simply learned which way to break and hurt the least. 

the others are all gathered in the same place, when andrew introduces you. it's wymack's house, somebody tells you, and though you have not met him andrew trusts him, and you trust andrew, so you stay. 

matt is soft and happy and feels something like home, and he is warm in his welcome. his girlfriend dan is pretty and fierce and brave, everything you have tried and failed to be. 

( _soon,_ the father whispers.  _be patient_ ).

seth seems made of lightning. he is coiled up anger ready to spring, but he does little more than scowl at you.

sitting next to him is sunshine. 

she has long, graceful legs and delicate hands and a voice dripping honey. "hello, darling," she says, and the sound sinks into your body, tasting like sugar. 

(you have wax-dipped wings and golden fingernails and knives made of the blood you have spilled. in the light of her gaze, you burn). 

//

you make hibiscus tea for her, and you think maybe you are friends, now. 

she leans over the side of your bed, hands brushing against the floor, teacup forgotten. 

"renee," she says, soft, always quiet when she's with you; whispered secrets spilling into silences and she unwinds and she is beautiful. "do you trust me?"

you tilt your head up to look at her. think of the shadows and flames and a knife between your teeth. "not yet," you say. trust is a hard thing to give. 

(you swallow the night and it sits heavy in your stomach. you carve yourself open and count the stars while begging the father for guidance).

//

autumn bleeds into winter. they engage in battle for a while. winter wins, and you have new bruises from andrew blossoming down your arms. 

the darkness cracks the sky apart sooner, now. the father says  _stay_. you plant your feet into the earth beneath the moon and grow roots in the concrete;

_here,_ you tell the mother,  _it is safe._

here, where the earth and sky collide and broken people learn how to file down their edges and embrace the shape it makes, is the place you are welcome to stay in. the place you are  _home._

(sometimes she sits with you, underneath the sky. threads her fingers through yours and asks

"do you trust me?"

"yes," you say, and pretend it does not scrape your throat raw. 

legend says you are ruthless and arrogant and fear itself. 

her eyes are bright and you are warm all over, heat tingling through your veins, and if legend were to see you now they'd say  _look, this is icarus. feel it burning_ ).

//

winter is long. you count twelve of them, visitors in threadbare clothes and shadows that chase them across worlds, and you spend a lot of time asking to be cleansed. 

_neil_ arrives in a whirlwind of black smoke and salt, dragging spring behind him. he does not drink tea, but accepts lemon mixed with blueberries. you leave him to andrew. 

it is later, and neil has been a fox for three weeks, or maybe three years or three hours. three something. time moves strangely, when you do not die. he is hoarding secrets, vicious when threatened, and has made enemies of half the people he is meant to help. he is not vengeance, like you, nor retribution, like andrew; he is whimsy. want. desire, like sunshine. 

you press your knife into andrew's side. he is distracted. 

"i will not be your punishment," you say. "do you want to stop?"

he shakes his head. wipes his face with his shirt. "what do you think of him?" he asks. it is easy to tell who he means.

"he is hiding something," you offer. it's not what he's looking for, but you're not giving him the reprimand he seems to want. "something dangerous."

"i hate him," andrew says. his voice is impassive and his face is dead but you know what this is. know what he's trying to tell you. 

"you do not need forgiveness for this, andrew," you say. "have you talked to bee about it?"

(you are not entirely sure who bee is, but she is andrew's secret keeper, the way you could have been once, had you listened properly.

it's too late now). 

//

in summer, you learn about evermore.

kevin, ashen-faced and shaking, talks about riko, and you're starting to think maybe you've heard this before, from a boy you thought you'd saved. 

(failure, you find, tastes like iron). 

"i killed him," you say. "i ate his heart."

the entire room stares at you, disbelieving. you shrug. from somewhere near the back, settled on an armchair with a tub of ice cream between his knees, andrew snorts.

"she's vengeance," he reminds them. "what did you expect?"

kevin clears his throat. attention swings back to him. "riko has demonic blood."

"ugh," aaron says. 

so he had at least one life left, when you uncovered him last time.

neil is tense, rigid at andrew's feet. perhaps this was his secret. "how many?" he asks. 

kevin purses his lips. "two," he says.

your tongue has an iron coating, too heavy in your mouth. "is jean still there?"

(you're dreading the answer. slowly, kevin nods, and a gleaming red knife slams into your stomach).

//

it's not hard to track him down; the prideful ones are always the easiest to find. you tell andrew first, guilt sticky in your throat. he brushes your shoulder, and you pretend it does not sting.

"you are not justice," andrew says. "your victory is not guaranteed." 

it's the most you'll get out of him. "i have to try," you say. the boy who could not bring himself to return to you deserves that much, at least.

later, you light pink candles for a girl who deserves more than you can give her. the two of you sit between the stars and watch the world grow. she wraps her arms around you, and you lean into her warmth. your stomach is bleeding blue roses.

usually, she's the one to give you secrets. sparkling wrapping paper that doesn't make a sound when you tear it. 

"i'm gonna do something stupid," you say.

she sighs. "you're doing a lot, for one human."

"i failed him," you whisper. your hands won't stop shaking.

"will you come back?"

you slip your hand into hers. trace patterns on the inside of her wrist with your fingertip. there are too many answers, too many things to say. 

"do you trust me?" you ask, let is hover in the air, fragile as glass.

"yes."

"i'll come back," you promise. 

(you do not tell the father, and ignore the copper in your tears).

//

evermore is cold, when you arrive. a world devoid of colour. 

jean is thinner, and his eyes are tired, but he lights up when he sees you. you give him your wings, stick them to his back and hide the pain in yours. 

"go," you say. (it is not safe, here). "he's dead."

he hugs you, quick and fleeting, and the sky welcomes him with open arms. your wings will guide him to jeremy, you hope, who has promised to take care of him. 

you walk down a long, white corridor, steps echoing.

_go,_ mother says.  _it is not safe, here._

mother is screaming, mother is burning, mother is, mother is, mother mother mother's

dead

a boy smiles and your fingernails stretch into claws. "hello, vengeance." his voice is silver. blue winter.

"death," you correct, and lunge for his throat. 

//

sunshine greets you at the door, when you come home blood-soaked and shivering. she holds you like you're not made of sharpened shadows, and you're falling, down into the waves.

"renee," she says, and you look up, into her eyes, and  _oh_ you love her, the force of it enough to choke you. "do you want me to run you a bath?"

you can feel his blood on your bones when you peel your clothes off and slip into warmth and bubbles and relief. your back still aches, but new wings are growing.

"i'm sorry," you tell the father, staring at your reflection in the water.

_my child,_ the father says, quiet and heavy.  _there is nothing to forgive._

you scrub at your skin until it becomes pink and raw, and change into the clothes she's left by the door for you.

she is sitting on your bed, surrounded by candles. your stomach twists and tangles at the sight of her bathed in light. 

she slides to her feet, and stands in front of you, cupping your face in her hands. your skin tingles beneath her touch.

"renee," she says, and it carries the weight of the universe with it. "can i kiss you?"

you grab hold of her shirt and rise up on your toes, tugging her down, and then her lips are pressed to yours and you are drowning in the ocean.

//

you move to the bed at some point; she is lying on her back, and you've settled between her legs. you trail kisses across her neck, the base of her throat, the jut of her collarbone.

(you think it would be nice, to bury yourself in her.

her skin is soft under your lips and you bite down gently; she gasps, honey-voice unravelling. time lengthens and thins and twists in circles between the encouragement slipping from her tongue and the shake of her thighs).

she takes her shirt off, movements smooth and languid, and you explore her chest slowly, carefully. find every sensitive part of her and revel in the sounds she makes. 

and then her underwear's sliding down her legs and she's guiding you down, down, and the universe curls itself into your fist when you learn what she likes. you tug at it softly, cautiously, and her tightly-wound strings begin to unravel and  _oh_ she is beautiful, chest heaving and cheeks flushed and you could watch her in orange candlelight forever.

(after, when the two of you are clean and satisfied, you sleep. in your dream you are unmade in moonlight. 

_stay,_ mother whispers.  _it is safe, here_ ).


End file.
